


Every Demon Has His Day

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley's fuck shit up jacket, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, NSFW Art, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Canon, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), They are in love OK?, Unleash the Chaos, throat-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29587068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Crowley wakes to the sight of his work jacket hanging outside his wardrobe. It takes him a moment to parse the significance of it, the sleep-fuzzy cogs of his mind just slipping against each other as he stares at it. The penny drops when he realises that the jacket has been laundered and pressed.Ah,AziraphaleIn which Aziraphale makes sure that Crowley has a VERY good day.Featuring art by the talentedDoorwaytoparadise
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 191
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs, Unleash The Chaos - Zine Fics and Art





	Every Demon Has His Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Unleash The Chaos zine - a love letter to Crowley's Fuck Shit Up jacket.
> 
> See the art and give Claire their due love here: [@nothistoryart](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart/status/1363198586285080580?s=20)

Crowley wakes to the sight of his work jacket hanging outside his wardrobe. It takes him a moment to parse the significance of it, the sleep-fuzzy cogs of his mind just slipping against each other as he stares at it. The penny drops when he realises that the jacket has been laundered and pressed.

Ah, _Aziraphale_.

That’s the game they’re playing today. Feeling suddenly far more awake, Crowley slithers out of bed and dresses himself with a sharp snap of his fingers. Snakeskin boots (presumably), slim-fit jeans, and a black shirt appear around him. The jacket he puts on by hand, stroking the tough material as if it were silk or cashmere. He’s been through a lot with this jacket.

The ID card and lanyard are still in the pocket where he left them, although his hair is rather longer in the photo than it is now. Slipping the lanyard over his head, he remembers how it had felt when his hair had fallen to his shoulders in gentle waves. Just like that, his hair is returned to its pre-Antichrist glory, complete with the little half-tie he had favoured back then.

His sunglasses and keys are by the door, he picks them up on his way out of the flat, whistling with happiness as he sets out into London for a day of demonic mischief.

First, he blocks half of the ticket gates into Green Park station. He doesn’t actually break them, he just covers them in “out of order” signs and watches as commuters and tourists all try to filter through the remaining gates. With his spirits up, he takes the Bentley into the city.

Rendered functionally invisible by his bright orange and reflective camouflage, Crowley sneaks all around the financial district of Canary Wharf for hours. All of the lifts in the HSBC building develop a bizarre malfunction where they only work for the disabled employees. The switchboard at Barclays begins redirecting all incoming calls to members of the board through a fault that no one seems to be able to fix. An executive at Citibank finds that, instead of the fluffy press release he had approved, he’s just emailed a full confession of his embezzlement to every major press outlet in the country.

Crowley is feeling so buoyed up by his antics, that he almost forgets why he’s having this day out in the first place. He catches himself before heading to the bookshop for a celebratory drink, Aziraphale won’t be there to welcome him and lightly rebuke him for all his demonic brilliance. Instead, Crowley diverts to Piccadilly Circus and spends an hour or so ruining tourists’ photographs.

He toys with the idea of popping along to Harrod’s and causing mayhem in the stock rooms, but decides against it. He’s had a long day already, it’s time for him to head back to Mayfair.

He’s whistling again as he crosses the landing to his front door, feeling as bright as he had that morning. All the mischief and deviousness has filled his metaphorical tank, leaving him topped up and refreshed.

His keys are in his pocket but he doesn’t take them out until he’s inside. The whole physical locking of the door is more of a suggestion than anything he really does. They get dropped onto the side table beside the door along with his sunglasses as he strides deeper into his flat with a bounce in his step.

There’s a pale flash to his right and that’s all the warning he has before he’s grabbed and pushed into the wall. Cool concrete grazes his cheek as his hands are caught and pulled behind him. From there, he’s forced onto the floor and held in place with a knee between his shoulder blades. Crowley struggles but he’s far outmatched in strength, he can barely wriggle in place. By the time he’s remembered how to speak, his wrists are being bound behind his back, arms crossed in a tidy box tie.

“What the fuck?!” he yells, still squirming ineffectually.

“None of that now, Crowley,” Aziraphale says calmly, “you knew the consequences for your actions.”

Crowley grins into the floor, trying to push himself up against Aziraphale.

“So you’re here to punish me, is that it?” Crowley manages to sound a little bitter, despite his toothy grin.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale shifts suddenly, letting Crowley rocket up onto his knees. “I’m here to remind you of how worthwhile it is for you to be good for me.”

He moves to squat in front of Crowley, stroking back the hair that’s come loose from its tie.

“I’m always good for you,” Crowley says, pushing his cheek into Aziraphale’s hand like a touch-starved cat.

“Yes, you are,” Aziraphale agrees, using the tone of voice that melts Crowley’s insides. “And I accept and love all of you as you are; demon, tempter, mischief-maker. I wouldn’t try to change any of that.”

Crowley frowns, Aziraphale’s gone a little off-script and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say next.

“What?” he manages, inelegantly. “What’s all this about, then?” Crowley shrugs to indicate his bound arms.

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle with a mischief of his own, sparking the conflicting sensations of dread and arousal in Crowley’s gut. He leans forward to kiss Crowley gently on the mouth before answering.

“It’s more fun this way,” he whispers, making Crowley groan in exasperation. “Haven’t you just had a lovely day, Crowley? Can you think of a better way to top it off than showing me how good you can be for me?”

Crowley groans again, although the tone of this one is quite different.

“Yes, yes, alright, this is a great finale for an already fantastic day,” he concedes, moving to try and catch Aziraphale’s lips for another kiss.

Aziraphale allows it, sliding one hand into Crowley’s hair and another under his jacket and around to the small of his back, drawing him closer. It’s too easy to surrender control to Aziraphale like this, to rely on him to hold them both up, to dictate the depth of the kiss, to understand when Crowley’s needs shift.

The kiss begins sweetly, lips meeting and parting, the hunger evident but contained. Aziraphale startles Crowley by sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth and giving the gentlest nibble. Crowley strains against his bonds, wanting to hold Aziraphale against him as their tongues meet and stroke into each other’s mouths. He loves this, perhaps more than he should, Aziraphale takes such good care of him without letting him doubt for a moment that he deserves this much love.

By the time Aziraphale eases them apart, Crowley is achingly hard in his jeans. The sight of Aziraphale’s kiss-reddened lips and pink cheeks only serves to make the situation worse.

Crowley lets himself topple forwards, leaning against Aziraphale’s chest and burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“Please,” Crowley asks in something slightly more dignified than a whimper, “please let me be good for you.”

“Oh, darling, you already are.” Aziraphale presses a kiss to the side of Crowley’s head.

Carefully, Aziraphale helps Crowley get to his feet and supports him as they walk over to the sofa that hadn’t been in Crowley’s flat that morning. Before he can so much as raise an eyebrow at the liberties Aziraphale is taking, Crowley is falling face-first into the cushions.

“So clumsy,” Aziraphale chides, as if he hadn’t been responsible for pushing Crowley down.

Without the use of his arms, Crowley has to thrash and wriggle to try and roll onto his back. He’s almost on his side when Aziraphale grabs hold of his foot and keeps him still. Not wanting to kick Aziraphale in the face, Crowley calms. He watches Aziraphale carefully unlace his boot before sliding it off. His sock follows and then Aziraphale moves on to the other foot.

Crowley collapses back onto his front and rocks his hips into the sofa cushion, groaning as the pressure on his cock only stokes his frustration further. He hears Aziraphale chuckle just before there are strong hands turning him onto his back.

“Let me help you with that, love,” Aziraphale says as he strokes his palm over the hard rise of Crowley’s erection.

“Please,” Crowley begs, watching the hunger in Aziraphale’s eyes.

Making short work of Crowley’s belt and buttons, Aziraphale peels the jeans down Crowley’s legs. He eases the tight denim over Crowley’s heels, pulling the whole lot free with a final flourish. That would usually earn a sigh of fond exasperation, but Crowley is so hard that the waistband of his underwear is gaping away from his stomach. He doesn’t have the brain power to spare for Aziraphale’s showmanship.

As soon as Aziraphale starts to slide Crowley’s underwear down his thighs, Crowley begins kicking and wriggling, urging his clothing off and to the floor. He looks desperately at Aziraphale, practically whining with the need to be touched.

“Hush, love,” says Aziraphale as he sits beside Crowley and kicks off his shoes, “I’m going to take good care of you.”

He presses himself into the corner of the sofa and brings one leg up to rest behind Crowley, effectively caging him between his legs. Crowley finds himself pulled into Aziraphale’s lap, the warmth of his chest somehow still reaching Crowley’s back through the heavy jacket. He wiggles his fingers against Aziraphale’s stomach just to make him giggle and is rewarded with a kiss on his neck.

Aziraphale runs his hands over Crowley’s shoulders and down his upper arms before dropping to his hips. Crowley squirms, trying to get Aziraphale’s hands closer to his painfully hard cock. Aziraphale nips at Crowley’s neck before sliding one hand up under Crowley’s shirt to his chest and the other around to wrap around the hot, hard length of him.

The noise that Crowley makes is neither dignified nor transcribable, it’s a noise of pure need and surrender. There’s an answering twitch against his bare arse as Aziraphale’s cock begins to strain against its corduroy prison.

“So good for me, aren’t you?” Aziraphale’s voice is like warm honey, sweet and golden in Crowley’s ears. “Let’s get you properly taken care of.”

His hand begins to glide up and down Crowley’s erection, driving him mad with light strokes and teasing squeezes.

“Angel, pleeease,” Crowley whines, lifting his hips into Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale draws him back down with the hand on his chest, holding him firmly in place in a way that sends sparks of arousal through every nerve in his body. He’s so desperately turned on from being manhandled and moved about but Aziraphale is just teasing him.

When Crowley is still once more, Aziraphale increases the pressure of his grip on Crowley’s cock, finally stroking him off in earnest. Crowley’s breath comes out in shallow pants and gasps as his climax looms, bitten-off mewls of need escape him despite his best efforts. He’s so close. Dropping his head back onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and clenching his fists, Crowley chases his pleasure right to the edge and then-

Nothing.

Aziraphale pulls his hand away and digs the nails of his other hand into Crowley’s chest, dragging him away from the precipice.

“No, no, no,” Crowley babbles. He can feel the sting of tears forming behind his eyelids.

Aziraphale kisses his cheek and grazes his teeth against the edge of his jaw.

“You’re my very favourite toy, Crowley,” Aziraphale croons gently, “I could play with you for hours and never get tired of you.”

Crowley sobs at the thought of spending hours in this state, bound, aroused, teased, controlled. It’s a kind of torture, the kind he craves from his beloved.

Aziraphale takes him in hand once again and this time Crowley is prepared. He telegraphs the approach of his orgasm, hiding nothing from Aziraphale and steeling himself for the moment when he’ll be yanked back from the peak of his pleasure.

After a few more aborted orgasms, Aziraphale shifts Crowley further up into his lap so he’s sitting across Aziraphale’s thigh. In this new position, Aziraphale picks up where he left off, pushing Crowley to the brink of orgasm with a hand around his cock and stroking at Crowley’s tight hole with slick fingers.

Whimpering and whining, Crowley writhes in Aziraphale’s lap, trying to push back against the finger teasing behind his balls. Aziraphale chuckles against Crowley’s shoulder before easing his middle finger inside.

“Look at you, you greedy thing,” Aziraphale murmurs, rocking his hand gently. “Am I not taking care of you? Seeing to your needs?”

Crowley shivers in a mess of arousal and overstimulation, a stream of precome leaks from his overly hard cock, and his eyes slam closed as he tries to fight another approaching orgasm.

It takes him a moment to register that Aziraphale has stopped the torment, his hands now soothing and stroking Crowley, turning and drawing him into a comfortable embrace against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Hush, love, you’re alright,” Aziraphale talks him down in soft tones, making sure that they are touching as much as possible.

Gradually, Crowley calms enough to be able to enjoy this impromptu snuggle, burying his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and taking deep breaths of him. His cock aches with the remnants of thwarted orgasms, but it’s bearable again. Reassuringly, he can feel Aziraphale’s urgent erection resting against his hip, reminding him that they are in this moment together.

“What would you like now, Crowley? Ask me for anything at all.”

Shifting to bring his thigh into contact with the hard line of Aziraphale’s cock, Crowley grinds against it to highlight the need that Aziraphale has been largely ignoring.

  


“Let me take care of this, please?”

Aziraphale laughs, kissing Crowley’s face everywhere he can reach.

“You’re a very selfless demon, you know.”

Screwing up his nose in disgust, Crowley rears back to give Aziraphale a thoroughly unimpressed glower.

“No, I’m a very selfish demon, all evil and cunning, me. I wanna suck you off for purely selfish reasons,” he snorts before adding: “Please?”

Aziraphale only hums a noise of assent that manages to be just shy of condescending. He reaches behind Crowley to untie the rope binding his arms but Crowley wriggles away, sliding himself to the floor in an ungainly heap.

“Nope, I don’t need hands for this,” he says cockily, grinning madly.

Aziraphale, ever the bastard, sits up and plants his feet either side of Crowley’s knees before leaning back into the sofa and looking expectantly at Crowley. His cock is tenting the fabric of his trousers obscenely, but he makes no move to release it.

Crowley understands exactly the point that Aziraphale is making, holding him to his word about not needing his hands. Just as he’s about to swallow his pride and concede that, yes, perhaps he could use a bit of help, Crowley remembers that he is, in fact, a very selfish demon.

He leans forward, rubbing his nose against the bulge that Aziraphale is presenting, and blows a stream of air over the damned trousers. Obediently, reality takes his suggestion and rearranges itself so that Aziraphale’s trousers and pants dissolve, only to reappear on the arm of the sofa, neatly folded.

“Told you,” Crowley says, feeling far too smug.

Aziraphale smiles as if he’s proud of Crowley for what amounts to little more than a parlour trick. Just as Crowley opens his mouth, Aziraphale cups the back of his head and gently guides him in, feeding his cock into Crowley’s eager mouth.

Despite Crowley’s best efforts and declarations, without the use of his hands, he struggles to exert the kind of control he needs to bring Aziraphale the kind of pleasure he wants. He sucks and licks well enough to make Aziraphale gasp out but it’s not enough. He huffs in frustration and looks up, fixing Aziraphale with a pleading look that would put a starving puppy to shame.

His angel is kind and giving, understanding Crowley’s needs with a mere look or semi-verbal utterance. His angel is also a bastard. This is why Aziraphale responds to Crowley’s silent plea by sinking his hands into Crowley’s hair, holding his head steady, and fucking into his throat with an energy that would be inadvisable for mortals.

Crowley loves it, loves the way that Aziraphale takes what he wants from Crowley’s mouth and pushes into the tight grip of his throat. He lets himself relax, giving over completely to Aziraphale’s control. Convulsively, he swallows around the head of Aziraphale’s cock, squeezing out a guttural grunt in response.

Just as Aziraphale’s movements become frantic, he drops one hand to Crowley’s throat and holds it in his palm. Crowley is sure that if he could touch himself just once, at this very second, he’d come all over himself. His arms stay bound, though, and he can focus instead on the unique pleasure of feeling Aziraphale inside and outside of his throat, knowing that Aziraphale enjoys the obscene bulge when he thrusts deep.

Aziraphale is buried deep in Crowley when he comes, shuddering and twitching with his orgasm. He’s still coming as he withdraws, leaving a thick trail across Crowley’s tongue and milking the last drops into his open mouth. As soon as Crowley has swallowed the last of it, Aziraphale lifts him up onto the sofa with ease.

Aziraphale all but collapses back, panting heavily. Crowley squirms up his chest until they are lying together, both naked from the waist down, and quite breathless. After a few moments, Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak but appears to change his mind, kissing Crowley deeply instead. Finding himself thoroughly kissed and held close, Crowley melts against Aziraphale, almost forgetting his own persistent arousal.

“You are a wonder, Crowley,” says Aziraphale when they finally break apart, “I love you so very much.”

“Love you, angel,” Crowley says into Aziraphale’s collarbone.

Managing to push himself up, Crowley straddles Aziraphale’s thighs and rejoices at the sensation of so much bare skin against him. He’s considering how best to get Aziraphale undressed further when he’s tugged forward. Aziraphale’s fingers have curled around the lanyard he’s still wearing, using it to draw Crowley’s mouth down for another kiss. Aziraphale’s other hand closes around Crowley’s cock and strokes him until he’s gasping into Aziraphale’s mouth.

“I should like to fuck you now,” Aziraphale says, matter-of-factly. Crowley makes a choked noise of agreement, rendered speechless even now by the way Aziraphale can just say these things.

He lets himself be moved and adjusted to Aziraphale’s satisfaction, tugs on his jacket and thighs positioning him to hover above Aziraphale’s reinvigorated erection.

He’s aching to be filled, but Aziraphale reaches up to undo Crowley’s shirt, pushing it and his jacket over his shoulders to bare his chest. This is how it feels to be loved, to be adored by someone unconditionally. As Aziraphale looks him up and down, stroking his fingertips over warm skin, Crowley takes in his loving expression and lets himself really feel all of the love that Aziraphale has for him.

Aziraphale’s hands drop from Crowley’s chest, one goes to hold his hip and the other reaches between them, bringing Aziraphale’s cock to nudge at Crowley’s hole.

“Gently, slowly,” Aziraphale warns, tightening his grip on Crowley’s hip to stop him sinking too fast.

“I was going slow!” Crowley whines, eager to be seated on Aziraphale’s cock.

Aziraphale merely huffs and holds him steady, controlling his movements. There’s a push and a moment of discomfort before Crowley’s body relaxes enough to allow Aziraphale inside. The joining is sublime, it always punches the breath out of Crowley’s lungs, no matter how many times they do this.

Aziraphale rolls his hips up against Crowley, encouraging him to start moving. He holds still a moment longer, looking at the flushed and perfect face of his lover, overwhelmed with this act they get to share. With Aziraphale’s hands on his hips, Crowley rocks just to feel the movement within him. Aziraphale’s cock presses into his prostate just enough to make him shiver and he finally starts moving in earnest, chasing that feeling again.

They move together so well, Aziraphale surging up to meet Crowley’s downstroke, fitting together like jigsaw pieces. Crowley feels electric, his entire body singing in pleasure as Aziraphale fills him again and again. He could come at any moment, if only he could get a hand on his aching erection. With his arms still bound behind his back, Crowley is at the mercy of Aziraphale’s whims and that thought is more intoxicating than any orgasm.

It’s an age and an instant before Aziraphale is grunting, slamming Crowley’s hips down and holding him there as his back arches. He’s beautiful when he climaxes, Crowley wants to see every second of it, knowing that it’s happening because of the effect Crowley’s body has on him.

Aziraphale falls back into the sofa, swamped by cushions. He looks ethereal and Crowley loves him. He loves him so much that it’s almost a full minute before he realises that Aziraphale isn’t moving to reciprocate. In fact, Aziraphale is slipping out of him and ignoring the straining, aching erection that still exists between them.

Crowley makes a soft, wounded noise of confusion. Aziraphale looks at him with sly understanding.

“Would you like to rut and rub against me? Would you enjoy finding release like that?” Aziraphale asks in a voice that’s as dark as bitter chocolate and just as deceptive.

Crowley wants to whine and object, to say that no, he wants Aziraphale’s hands or mouth. But something dangerous and slithery in the back of his mind where these decisions are made has already decided that he wants to degrade himself.

“Yes,” he says quietly, earning a beaming, wide grin from Aziraphale.

“Oh, marvellous,” Aziraphale says, stroking under Crowley’s shirt to draw him forward.

With Aziraphale’s spend sliding wetly down the insides of his thighs, Crowley tries to shift carefully, angling his pelvis so that his cock can lie flush in the valley of Aziraphale’s hip.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Aziraphale coos, scratching lightly at Crowley’s back under the bunched up shirt and jacket.

It’s difficult to get started, difficult to get over how awkward he feels, but Aziraphale keeps touching him and encouraging him until that all falls away and he’s grinding his cock into the soft warmth of Aziraphale’s skin.

He’s been riding the edge for so long that it doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build into something inevitable and ferocious. Crowley loses his balance and falls forward onto Aziraphale’s chest, his hips still thrusting into the sensation. There’s a tug at his hair as Aziraphale lifts his head to check on him and that throws him violently over the edge of his climax.

Seeming to understand the link, Aziraphale’s fingers tighten in his hair to help him ride out the intense convulsions of pleasure that run through him. There’s a hot, wet flood between them and Crowley can barely remember his own name. He can hear ragged breathing but it takes him longer than it should to realise that it’s his.

Aziraphale relaxes his hand and strokes Crowley’s hair until his breathing has returned to something like normal. Dimly, in the slowly fading afterglow of an orgasm so good it should have been illegal, Crowley thinks that this might be the best day he’s ever had.

He holds still as Aziraphale unties his arms, rubbing life back into them as he goes. As soon as Crowley has control of his arms again, he slips them free of his sleeves and wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s chest. He curls up slightly, letting Aziraphale kiss his hair and drape the heavy jacket over them both like a blanket.

“I love you, Crowley, I wanted you to know that there are no clauses to that statement. I love you at your most demonic, and I love you just as you are now, calm and still. I love all of you.”

Crowley lifts his head and opens one golden eye to look at Aziraphale’s terribly earnest face.

“Soft git,” he says, “I love you too.” And if he clings to Aziraphale a little tighter after that, well, neither of them need to mention it out loud to know what it means.

  
  



End file.
